


A Tryst by any other Name

by vicariously kingly (pelted)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, PWP, dirty talking and other dirty things, just straight smut, light internalized homophobia, set pre-canon but is canon compliant, vague Dom/sub elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 14:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17982731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelted/pseuds/vicariously%20kingly
Summary: Fooling around with Arthur in camp had its perks. Having to stay quiet, John found, was not one of them.





	A Tryst by any other Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallen_arazil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallen_arazil/gifts).



> inspired in large part by [fallen_arazil's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallen_arazil/pseuds/fallen_arazil) works, because hot damn if her John and Arthur aren't absolutely amazing! give her works a read if you haven't yet, especially [Samaritan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17168072/chapters/40366133) (which is about as true-to-canon and canon-sounding as an AU can be).
> 
> in any case, this fic is very nsfw and not a little silly. 
> 
> (please read Abigail in a light most favorable. in my very biased opinion, she is amazing.)
> 
> finally, **warning!** please note the tags, and that John and Arthur's relationship is unconventional. that includes pretty derogatory speech and poor coping mechanisms revolving around internalized shame (for a variety of reasons that this fun pwp was not equipped to address).

“We _could_ , but you have got to be _quiet._ ”

“I can be quiet.”

“I recognize discretion is against your nature.”

“I said, I can be quiet!”

“Quiet about what?”

Ignoring the point well made, John passed along the glare Arthur gave him to Uncle. “None of your business, old man.”

“Aw, come on, John. Don’t be like that.” 

Convinced he’d stuck his nose into a jackpot, Uncle gave him a wobbly, gap-toothed grin, his hands up and demeanor placating. Uncle was a fairly new addition to their merry band, but it hadn’t taken more than two days talking with him to know how hard he was never willing to work. If it weren’t for the good heart buried under all the parasitic tendencies, John wouldn’t have spared him even the bare amount of attention.

“We’ll discuss the finer details later,” Arthur told John, steadfastly ignoring Uncle’s intrusion. “I’ll be around after dropping this off.”

Meaning he was perfectly fine leaving John to fend the bearded monkey off their back. John didn’t bother keeping the bitterness from his face or voice. “You do that. And make sure Dutch knows that didn’t all come from you.” 

Arthur gave him a knowing smirk, pointedly hefted up their satchel, and gave it a shake. The day’s worth of stolen goods clinked merrily within. Though John knew Arthur wouldn’t follow through - he gave credit where it was due, mostly -, the _no promises_ implication was there loud and clear. Annoyance sparked heat in John’s face. It worsened as Arthur turned away and headed toward Dutch’s tent without any further response. Grew into outright irritation as Uncle stepped neatly into Arthur’s vacated space, which put him very close to John indeed.

In classic wheedling fashion, Uncle set to babbling his way into whatever plan he thought they had that would turn an easy profit. “You fellers got a lead? ‘Cause, I got a lead, too, and I want to make sure we ain’t following up on the same job.”

“Trust me, we ain’t,” John grumbled, and tried to dodge around him. Arthur and he had been on the road for the better part of the day, stopping only at the decrepit mansion they’d heard had floorboards full of old, expensive heirlooms. Turned out it did, but it’d also housed near a dozen of the thieves who’d packed it with its riches. They’d gotten out without injury, which was a miracle that left John equal parts exhausted and starving. 

He didn’t much feel like dealing with anybody extra, even someone as harmless as Uncle. He wanted whatever decent scraps were left in Pearson’s stew, and he wanted to hole up in his tent until Arthur came around. Didn’t seem like much to ask for.

Except apparently, the desire to be back at camp made him forget just how in everybody’s business everybody insisted on being. Arthur had warned him as much, saying they should’ve pitched a tent on the plains if privacy was what he wanted. More fool than sense as John was, he’d insisted people would get the hint to leave off if persuaded. 

(Mostly, he had wanted to be back at his own tent. Arthur was happy to fall asleep anywhere horizontal, but John preferred his tent. It’d taken him a few years’ worth of growth spurts and proving his worth with a gun to get his own space in camp. The novelty of it still lingered.)

If folk did give space when persuaded, John lacked the persuasive skills. Uncle poked and prodded at what Arthur and John had in mind a few moments more, but left when John said, _fine, I’ll tell you, but you’ll have to come on as an extra gun_. Just as soon as he wrote John’s proposal off as demanding too much of an old coot like him, Javier _casually_ sidled up to inquire how the mansion raid had gone. Sean -- new enough to bleed desperation in proving himself when he wasn’t too busy lazing around the camp and gorging himself on beer and bread -- overheard John saying it went well, and so got it in his head that the source they’d received the tip from had other tips to give too, and wanted to help drag those tips into the open.

It took time telling Sean that even if that were true, they didn’t need to get all riled about it right then because their source had been a drifter who was probably long gone on the most recent train headed out of town.

It took so much time that Karen wandered over to see what was worth all the ruckus, after which she started debating with Sean and Javier about where they should _really_ be putting their time and attention. In her mind, that special place deserving their efforts was none other than the post office. According to her, some important packages were due to arrive for the town’s local Mr. Moneybags, and it’d be easy pickings. 

_That_ caught Hosea’s attention and sparked a cautionary tale about tangling one’s self with postal workers. Evidently, it was one of the few offices the government didn’t stand any tampering with. Soon enough, Hosea was off on a story John had heard five times prior. 

What felt like half the camp soon gathered around the stewpot, and John had to throw a few elbows to get his dinner, which made people comment on his grouchiness despite a job well done, and he had to defend himself well as he could. Then Abigail -- new too, but much more palatable than Sean, in more ways than one -- was there, and John put considerable more effort into defending himself in case she got the wrong idea about him (beyond all the correct wrong ideas about him), and _stupidly long story short_ , it took him far too long to eat his dinner.

Dusk had rolled into night by the time he finally disengaged and made it to his tent. 

To his slight surprise, Arthur wasn’t waiting for him. 

But then, the surprise was his exhaustion talking. By the time he kicked off his boots, undid his belt, fell onto his cot and his back quit its near-painful aching, he impressed himself by not immediately falling asleep. Outside his tent’s thin burlap walls, the camp’s nightly noises continued on: Javier, plucking at his guitar; Uncle, starting up a song too fast-paced for Javier’s tune; Abigail, joining in after much heckling by Karen and Jenny. 

At their comforting routine, his earlier irritation slid off him. It was good to be back. He silently congratulated himself for a decision well-made in returning quicker than usual, and let himself be lulled closer to sleep.

As it turned out, he dozed off. Didn’t recall doing it, of course, but it was the only explanation for why he startled bad as he did when a hand shook his shoulder.

He threw an arm up to knock it off, twisting to his back and blinking with blurry vision into the muted dark of his tent. Between falling asleep and waking up, cotton had filled his head, making it difficult to think too fast.

Thus him mumbling, _Arthur? What’n the hell’re you doing?_ \-- a second before he remembered and Arthur said, “Thought we had an arrangement. Typical, you falling asleep on me.”

“Wasn’t sleeping. Was just resting my eyes,” John protested, then ruined his chance at being convincing by scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Anyway, you took your sweet time.”

“Yeah, well. Didn’t much care for Uncle following me. Figured you’d agree.” 

John appreciated that.

The camp’s main fire had died down and with it, the noises of those awake. Its embers cast dim shadows on the other side of his tent’s wall. If anybody lingered around it, they were either sleeping or standing far enough away he didn’t feel too worried about them eavesdropping. Crickets chirped and sang in the tall grasses around their current stake out. Coyotes yipped farther out, delighted by whatever they’d scrounged up for a midnight snack. Pearson had huffed and puffed about them and the threat they poised to his stock, but he needn’t be. Night patrol dealt with errant scavengers. It was practically all night patrol ever did.

The old cot he’d bought with his own, hard-earned money creaked ominously as Arthur leaned against it. Crouching, he set his hand right next to John’s head. Sweat, trail dust, and horse wafted off him as he drew close.

“This is a stupid idea, even for you,” was the first thing he said, his breath warm against John’s ear. “Could drop a pin in here and have Davey talking about it over breakfast tomorrow.”

Just like that, John was wide awake. A shiver ran up his spine. His skin prickled. He was, all at once, very aware of the meager space between he and Arthur. 

“What’s stupid is you arguing about it,” John said, “ _after_ you come in here and wake me up.”

“Thought you were just resting your eyes.”

 _Ass._

John turned his head. Arthur’s eyes glinted in the dark, the whites a stark but thin line around blown, night-darkened blue. His face hovered less than an inch from John’s. 

“You gonna kiss me, or what?”

“Thinking about it. Weighing the… positives and negatives with the inevitable finding-out.” Arthur’s voice was low. Deep. Little more than a whisper, just for John. “Don’t shit where you eat,” he mused aloud as if he were actually reconsidering his choices, because he was an _ass_ , “that’s what we’ve always been told.”

“By folks who do just that all the time.”

“Dutch puts up with a lot as is.”

“If you think he doesn’t know we screw around, you give him less credit than he deserves.”

The low lighting made it hard to catch, but John thought he saw danger flash across Arthur’s face. It happened, occasionally. Happened more often in the beginning, when John did most of the chasing on account of Arthur’s skull being too thick to realize what he meant when he’d turn any argument he could into a hands-on match. It was a look similar to the one Arthur got when an annoyance became a problem. Similar, in that it promised a fight. Different, in that John was more sure than not that Arthur’d stop himself before the bleeding.

Arthur said, lip curled to show teeth in a grin or grimace, words sharpened into a half-convincing threat, “If he knew, we’d know,” and closed the space between them.

If John wanted to think twice on his meaning, Arthur didn’t give him the breath for it. His dangerous edge translated into a hard, teeth-knocking kiss. 

Growling a _finally_ into the mouth on his, John threw one arm around Arthur’s shoulders and dug his fingers into the loose cotton of his shirt. Arthur had a hand of his own splayed on the lower curve of John’s neck, his thumb a light presence on the side of his windpipe. The cot, again, creaked as John shifted to his side for a better angle, deepening the kiss as he went. 

A whisper of a sigh passed Arthur’s lips. John swallowed it, and slid his hand up, to tangle in Arthur’s hair.

At that, Arthur pushed him flat. John huffed, and made to right himself. Again, Arthur pushed him back.

On his third attempt, Arthur shoved his shoulder flat and held it there. 

They’d taken a tumble together enough for John to know Arthur had two modes: excruciatingly slow or viciously fast. Out of impatience more than preference, John tended toward the latter. In the midst of camp, the threat of being caught an ever-present background noise in what constituted as John’s common sense, he’d imagined a swift tryst. Typically folks didn’t mess around in camp, but when they did, it was quick. Practicality demanded it.

By how he broke the kiss to murmur, “Stay still, damn you,” _quick_ was not on Arthur’s mind.

“You want to drag this out?” John bit back, and lost his credibility as Arthur grazed his teeth along his jawline and made him shift his legs, restless. “Thought you were the one shaking in your boots over your pa finding out. Little old and ugly to be waiting on a ring, ain’t you?”

“Maybe I’m feeling sentimental. Romantic, even.” _Yeah fucking right._ John snorted, feeling Arthur’s grin as he pressed it against his neck. “Or I just want to see how well you can actually keep your trap shut.”

“Don’t seem to be a problem yet. The only one flapping their jaw’s you.”

As his wandering lips shifted to press a kiss below his ear, John obliged Arthur and tilted his head back. For a moment, John preened over getting the last word. Then Arthur worked over the sensitive skin along his neck and his ear. Grazed his teeth along the edge and tugged on the end; rubbed his thumb along his collarbone and dipped his hand into the open collar of his shirt; hummed pleasantly into John’s neck when he dragged his hand up and down what he could reach of Arthur’s back. 

Looking forward from then, it would’ve been a nice, straightforward night. 

For that, though, Arthur would’ve been a woman, and also, literally anyone else. 

Instead, Arthur put his mouth back to John’s ear and whispered, warm enough to pool heat below John’s belly, “Get yourself started for me.”

That wasn’t something they’d done before. Wasn’t expected, either.

John stilled. Asked, after a moment, “What?”

“ _Quiet._ ”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” John repeated in a low hiss, raising his head to glare halfheartedly.

“I’m not here to do all the work.” When John continued to stare, Arthur’s shoulders rose and fell in a sharp huff, his hand sweeping down John’s chest in an illustrative gesture. “Touch yourself.”

So it was what he’d thought. Thing was, “The hell are you here for at all if I’m messing with myself?”

“Promise it’ll pay off,” Arthur murmured, his nails scratching lightly along John’s chest, “if you do well enough.”

 _That_ was a promise Arthur was always good for and that John was very interested in seeing pay off, but the concept seemed silly. Seemed embarrassing, too, having somebody watch him jerk off. He wasn’t sure where Arthur got it in his head that it was a good idea. Far as John knew, Arthur hadn’t dallied with anyone besides him since Eliza. Not prudish, but very picky. A quality that played to Arthur’s favor given his tastes-- unlike John, who shared the tastes but none of the discretion.

What he was saying then, though, that was a new level. A stranger level.

And yet.

Curiousity dogged the embarrassment. He could hear Arthur’s voice there, too: _Always up to try once, our Johnny boy._

Second half went to the tune of, _Even if it means sticking his hand in a beehive for a thimble of honey,_ but that wasn’t the tone Arthur had then. Though Arthur played at dismissive, John knew it was an honest request. Teasing and habitual barbs aside, there wasn’t much room for anything short of honesty when they fell into bed together. That hadn’t been true in the beginning of their relationship, but it was now, and it’d been hard-won and much-needed enough for John not to question it in the middle.

A bit of him wondered on Abigail, right then. He and her were headed for something, he just didn’t know what. Whatever it was, he needed to tell Arthur. Last time John had picked up a woman for the night and Arthur found out, they’d had a talk without using the exact words: straying was fine, so long as it weren’t too close to home.

Abigail, though new, felt closer and closer to home.

But Abigail wasn’t watching him with a patience he enjoyed, doubted and feared in unequal measure. Arthur was as close to home as it got. Too close, sometimes, because there Arthur was, acting as Dutch’s golden boy without even breaking a sweat. To think John was the age Arthur had been when they’d first met, and yet John hadn’t accomplished or experienced half the shit Arthur had-- it got overwhelming. There were so many paths John hadn’t walked. Paths Dutch and Hosea and Arthur wouldn’t _let_ him walk, because they’d walked it and declared them unnecessary, and John was just supposed to accept that at their word.

Abigail was different. She didn’t have the history. She had no reason to tell John to slow down on a lead. Why, she was as close to free as anybody in Dutch’s circle could be.

Arthur and he would have the talk. Another time.

Right then, John hit his head back against his pillow and gritted out, “Fine,” as if the curiousity weren’t swallowing the embarrassment. As if he didn’t reach down and nudge his trousers further off his hips, the belt he’d failed to entirely remove clicking as he did. 

He took himself in hand. Found himself mostly soft, the interruption from their kissing - and his own damn, wandering thoughts - killing his mood. 

Try though he did to refocus fast, his dick apparently didn’t want to cooperate. The situation made his ears burn and jaw clench. Outside the tent, a log in the fire broke and sent up a shower of sparks, reminding him abruptly of where exactly they were. He wanted, suddenly, to break something.

Arthur tsked. Worked open John’s shirt buttons, one by one, slow as sin. Said, casual enough to bring back the edge of danger from the beginning, “Whatever you’re thinking about, knock it off. You’re wound tenser than a spring.”

The log’s reminder alone kept John from barking a derisive laugh. 

He said instead, “I’m thinking about how fucking absurd this is, mostly.”

Arthur had half his buttons undone, and couldn’t have possibly been looking at John’s attempts to rouse himself when he said, “It’s not so bad from my vantage point.”

“It’s too dark for you to see shit.”

“Yeah?” He popped the last button, and smoothed a hand down John’s lightly haired chest. He’d finally started filling out with real muscles, though they were wiry and unimpressive to his eye. “I can see you blushing, like some virgin on her bridal bed. Can see your thoughts wandering when they should be here. Can see you barely even trying.”

John bit the inside of his cheek. His whole face felt on fire. Slowly, it spread down his neck.

“Is it because you know anybody might be listening?” 

Hell. That focused his thoughts. His chin jerked up; his hand slowed, even as he stiffened. 

“That at any time, somebody could wander on by and figure out what Johnny’s hot for. Who would’ve thought it’d be something like this? Goddamn dirty.”

The cot wasn’t that big. John spread his legs as far as his half-off trousers would allow; found himself feeling caught, and taking a moment to shove and kick them off one leg, settling back to re-adjust and tighten his grip on himself. Arthur was right, he had been approaching it as something to get done. Arthur was usually right.

“Bet you’d be happier with more folk watching. All on display like you are now, working yourself up,” Arthur said, and his voice was-- heavier. More affected. “Probably wishing somebody would fill you up. Whichever end, doesn’t matter, so long as you’re in the center.”

With both of his hands accounted for on John’s person, he was neglecting himself. That image struck and stuck: Arthur, eyes blown black with a ring of blue, flushed too, holding himself in check just because that was what he thought served them both better.

Arthur being usually right could get more than frustrating. Winding him up then unwinding him back down, knowing John was one of the few to do that to him, that helped the frustration.

“Not too fast. ‘Less you don’t want what I’ve got to give.”

The promise.

Oh, John wanted it.

He slowed his pace without thinking. Circled his thumb along the head, dipping only briefly into the sensitive slit. Felt his hips twitch and the cot creak.

Arthur pet along his hair, driving home his next words and sending the heat from John’s face straight to his groin. 

“Can see how much you want to rut into your hand like a dog in heat. I’d love to hear you beg, but I’m sure the rest of the camp would rather have their sleep.”

When he withdrew his hand from his chest, John _almost_ whined. Turned it into an annoyed noise at the last moment. Got himself a low chuckle anyway, as well as the sounds of a belt and suspenders being undone. 

For a time, the only sounds in the tent were John’s breathing and Arthur’s whispered assurances that he looked as filthy as he felt.

His hand returned. Two fingers pressed at the front of John’s mouth. He opened, let them slip in, salty and warm. Listened when Arthur told him to suck. Flattened his tongue under them, letting finally his eyes drift close. Opened his mouth wider when Arthur wanted a third finger in. Didn’t think past the now too-slow hand on his dick and the fingers in his mouth. 

Just as he started really weighing the worth of holding back for whatever Arthur had in mind, Arthur withdrew his fingers, saliva stringing wet between them. Lingered enough for John to chase them, tongue curled around his pointer. Stroked himself long and slow to mirror it, everything in him itching to speed up and Arthur’s clear expectation the only reason he didn’t.

The dark and angle didn’t allow for John to know how tight Arthur’s jeans were. By his abrupt silence, though, John knew it to be _fairly._

When Arthur spoke next, his voice had roughened to a deep husk.

“Sheet. Ground, now.”

Arthur didn’t have to ask twice.

In the back of his mind, John was happy to be off the squeaky cot. Interesting though Arthur’s proposed images were, they were exciting only in fantasy. The reality of somebody peeking in and catching them was not, despite his bluster, particularly enticing.

The threat that someone could anyway, regardless---

_Well._

Truly, John hadn’t thought about the excitement of walking a very thin line when he’d insisted they come back to camp. He’d really just wanted his own bed, and to not have to bother with keeping watch, and to wake to Pearson’s cooking and the sounds he associated first and foremost with a job well-done.

Though John didn’t have much, he’d invested in a decent pillow and blanket for his cot. He regretted briefly that he hadn’t brought the bedroll in from where he’d stashed his saddle, though not terribly so: the ground was relatively soft, and he wasn’t fussy or fancy enough that he begrudged getting his blanket dusty from the dirt. He pulled it from his cot and laid himself down on it without a word, throat choked with anticipation. In a similarly charged silence, Arthur finished pulling off his jeans and the long shorts underneath, dumping them in a heap to the side. Arthur was a hazy, broad-shouldered silhouette in the fire’s dying light.

 _Look at you,_ Arthur said, or whispered, or maybe simply thought loud enough John caught it. _My John._

Because aside from that, he didn’t speak. He stepped over John, set one leg on either side of him. John snagged his ankle on reflex, hand running up his calf. Arthur crouched soon after, knees digging into the blanket, his torso twisting and his hand disappearing behind him, and John had just enough time to _realize_ and turn his moan into a stuttering sigh as Arthur lined him up and started to sink down.

The easy, slick entrance was, John fuzzily noted, possibly why Arthur had taken his sweet time in meeting him. 

All the same, it took an eternity for Arthur to seat himself fully on John’s lap - and once he did, it felt tight as ever. He lowered himself excruciatingly slowly, one hand curled tight at the base of John’s dick and the other pressed flat in the middle of his sternum. His breathing was a measured, practiced thing, and impressively quiet. John had a brief thought that Arthur had played the hiding game before, and found himself relatively unsurprised.

John set his hands on Arthur’s waist. His fingers trailed down into the sharp cut of his hips. He felt the muscles in Arthur’s stomach jump and twitch as he settled, withdrawing his hand from between them to press on John’s bony shoulder. 

The fingers on his chest spasmed lightly as he shifted front to back, as if testing what he had to work with. John groaned, unable to help himself, as the liquid-hot vice around him shifted too. 

Groaned again as Arthur immediately bent forward to capture his mouth in a comparably light kiss. 

“Here’s the real test, Johnny,” he sighed the reminder into John’s mouth, sounding more amused than anything. He brushed his tongue across John’s lower lip and licked in when John grumbled in faux annoyance. “You going to get us busted?” 

 

In retaliation, John dipped his hand further south and took Arthur in hand. Found him as hard as he’d hoped, and felt him shudder as he ran a tight grip up the shaft and rubbed at the head.

Arthur’s practiced breathing broke into a pace slightly faster than normal. He rocked into John’s hand, and back onto his dick. Ground down extra hard when John twisted his grip. Circled his hips in a manner John was pretty sure a whore could’ve learned a thing or two from. 

Dropped his head to John’s neck again, too, and sucked. Pulled skin between his teeth and bit himself what would be a nice mark, which made John’s toes curl and his shoulders jump. He felt short on air and painfully restless all at once. 

Made it a real bitch and a half not to make noise.

Arthur knew it, too. John felt his smirk. Heard the wet sounds of their bodies move, but it was a muted, softened process compared to their past encounters. His breath puffed against John without a single sigh underneath.

John let go of his cock and again grabbed his hips. Tried to direct him to go faster, but Arthur, damn him, only huffed a laugh against his neck and _stopped_.

Restlessness peaking, skin prickling, John scratched nails down Arthur’s thighs. As Arthur’s mouth and _everything_ had stilled too, he scratched his mounting frustration down his back, too.

“Fuck, Morgan,” he finally breathed out. “You bastard. Have pity.”

Arthur hushed him with a hand over his mouth.

John scowled into the dark. “ _You_ can talk shit all you like, but I--”

“John,” Arthur hissed, even quieter than before, “shut the fuck up.”

John closed his mouth with a click.

In the absolute silence of held breath and a keen awareness that right then wasn’t the time to push, John heard it: somebody, not far at all from his tent entrance.

Barring them having a sudden impulse in speaking up or giving another telltale signal, there was no telling who. By the shadow’s shape, it wasn’t Grimshaw, which was about as far as their hopes could stretch. Over Arthur’s curved shoulder, John watched the stretched-out shadow hover between his tent and the fire.

As the person continued to linger and didn’t charge in with a pointed finger and disgusted accusation, John’s heart crawled its way out of his throat and back into his chest. 

Arthur didn’t move. In fact, it felt as if he hadn’t let go of his held breath. He’d tensed enough that John almost felt worried about moving, mostly his dick’s safety. John could practically see the cogs in his mind turning. Plotting. How to get out without being noticed; how to escape swiftly into the night; how to leave both him and John hanging, because to him, ever-private as he was with the shit that mattered most to him, the simple presence of somebody else undoubtedly meant the end of their fun.

(Not to say their trysts meant so much to Arthur-- John wouldn’t presume-, but being caught obviously did.)

Unfortunately for Arthur, John was a creature of impulse. 

People woke up in camp all the time. In a group of road-weary outlaws more liable to pull a gun or knife from under the pillow than ask questions, the main fire was one of the few places assuredly safe from an accidental maiming. Whoever had trouble sleeping obviously hadn’t caught on to what was happening in John’s tent, or they wouldn’t have lingered so close. 

Figuring it was safe enough, John slid a hand back between his body and Arthur’s.

Arthur’s head twitched up. His eyes snapped to John’s.

John gave him a toothy smirk of his own, pretty pleased with his ingenuity and the sudden swap in power. 

Arthur could’ve shoved him away, but he didn’t. That, John thought, was more telling than any fancy speech.

 _In fact_ , Arthur’s body bowed somewhat. Gave John a better angle to work with.

He rubbed his thumb under the head of his cock. Pulled lightly. Saw Arthur’s jaw slacken slightly, even as his hands clenched into fists on either side of John’s head. Felt him shift his weight left to right. Considering. Reconsidering.

Reconsidering his plan to bolt, hopefully. To better convince him, John worked Arthur over how he knew he liked it best when he was in a slow mood: kept the pressure tight but moved leisurely. Focused on stroking, long pulls with short twists. Kept an ear to how much sound he was making, which as far as he could tell was next to none.

 _Fuck_ was breathed against his ear. Slick leaked onto John’s hand, forcing him to slow even further to keep quiet.

John remembered the shadowed person outside wasn’t a constant only once they moved. Foolhardy but not stupid, John stopped when the movement grabbed his eye. It was a testament to how close they’d come to being caught that he didn’t even feel too proud over how Arthur shuddered, how he spread his knees further and pressed closer, his face buried into John’s neck.

Whoever it was didn’t receive an eyeful that night. They wandered off, in the direction of what John thought to be the girl’s tents. 

In the wake of their threat, John and Arthur remained frozen for a minute after. 

Then Arthur made a low noise, as openly wanton as John ever had the luck of dragging out of him, and started moving again. 

He straightened up. Braced himself backwards, hands on John’s thighs. Bore his full weight down, and rode him, hard. 

Stole John’s breath, sparked the heat in him to a flame, and from a flame to an inferno. Snapped forward to put a tight hand over John’s mouth when he hissed a shaky breath that tapered into a moan of, _Arthur_ ; but didn’t slow down, didn’t pause even a second, and the adrenaline of the potential intruder combined with the heavy focus of Arthur’s attention on him pushed him over _quick._

Arthur rode him through it, his jaw set tight. Rode him past it, too, when it was near too sensitive to be anything but painful, shifting his hips to angle back until he was shuddering and falling apart, bending forward before he broke entirely. 

They laid together after, John raising a shaky arm to drape along Arthur’s sweat-slicked back. Settled their breathing like that. 

Then Arthur pressed his mouth, light, against the bruise he’d made on John’s neck, and again along his jawline, and drew back and away.

To John’s surprise, he had to stop himself from asking Arthur to stay the night. A leftover from how little they’d fooled around within earshot of people who mattered, possibly. In the wilderness, there was no question of staying the night: there was only one tent, and typically, by that point, only one bed. 

Arthur, of course, didn’t even seem to hesitate in taking his leave. He grabbed gun rag from John’s bags, passed it to John first, used it himself second, and pulled on his clothes in mere minutes. He paused at the tent exit, apparently listening for any more late night sleepwalkers; but then, with only a slight glance back, he slipped out, silent as any shadow. 

In camp still had its perks, John hazily mused as he got himself back onto his cot. For one, eating breakfast and watching Arthur make excuses about having ridden too much the day before to explain why he winced when he sat at the card table, was pretty great.

On the other hand, when Abigail sat across from him with her own plate and gave him such a _knowing_ look that he nearly spilled every excuse in the book without her saying a single thing, that-- wasn’t ideal. 

It sure did wake him up, though.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! ;D 
> 
> find me on tumblr @ unkingly or twitter @ exkingly, or in the comments below. take care and stay warm, everybody!


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